Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was very
patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself.
But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse,
broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to
sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she did
not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names,
and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to
be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she 'would think of it,
though there was no danger yet'. A letter from Washington added to their
trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home
for a long while.
How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how
heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow
of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that Margaret, sitting
alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things
more precious than any luxuries money could buy—in love, protection, peace,
and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened
room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic
voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's
nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to
acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make
home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and
which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy,
in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling
now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful
grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie
haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand
piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used
to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman,
baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg
pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent
all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best were
surprised to find how many friends shy little Beth had made.
Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in her
wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for her cats, but
would not have them brought, lest they should get sick, and in her quiet hours
she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them